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M2tM
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Alright, well, I don't post in this section often, but I've got a solid start to a novel. yes, it's only 1.75 chapters (the second chapter is not complete) however, I have an entire storyboard done and I have a solid plan for what will occur and the order of events. I'm not going to ruin the ending for anyone and I do plan on getting this published when I finish (probably be at least a couple years)
I'd really like comments on my writing style at this point. Is it readable? How is the pace? Is it insulting the user with too many details or is it too vague on any points?
I started this story once before, got 35 pages done and deleted the whole thing to re-start. I am much happier with the direction this one is going in. You'll notice that the world is similar to our own, but holds a number of small differences. Money is called pressings and is completely coin-based. Cars and other modern aspects exist, but the ruling system is completely different from our own. Governing is left mostly to local bodies and the layer above that is much less influential. It's not a perfect system and it does have similarities to our own, but it's no worse than the methods used in our world.
Computers also exist and they are sleightly more powerful than we know them today. The general population of their world, however, is lower than on earth which means that cities are a little further apart and there are more rural areas throughout the world. There's more un-tamed space.
Industry exists (of course, based on what I've already said, it must), but is more ecological than on our planet and means that environmental concerns exist, but are not huge problems.
Anyhow, enjoy what I have so far, feedback is appreciated.
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Chapter 1
I'd really like comments on my writing style at this point. Is it readable? How is the pace? Is it insulting the user with too many details or is it too vague on any points?
I started this story once before, got 35 pages done and deleted the whole thing to re-start. I am much happier with the direction this one is going in. You'll notice that the world is similar to our own, but holds a number of small differences. Money is called pressings and is completely coin-based. Cars and other modern aspects exist, but the ruling system is completely different from our own. Governing is left mostly to local bodies and the layer above that is much less influential. It's not a perfect system and it does have similarities to our own, but it's no worse than the methods used in our world.
Computers also exist and they are sleightly more powerful than we know them today. The general population of their world, however, is lower than on earth which means that cities are a little further apart and there are more rural areas throughout the world. There's more un-tamed space.
Industry exists (of course, based on what I've already said, it must), but is more ecological than on our planet and means that environmental concerns exist, but are not huge problems.
Anyhow, enjoy what I have so far, feedback is appreciated.
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Chapter 1
It’s dark enough to make me believe that sight is just a half-remembered figment of my imagination. This place seems oddly familiar, though I can’t remember anything specifically about the events leading up to this moment. I can’t even really remember who I am. I blink, though it’s too dark to tell save by feel, and attempt to focus on something, anything. The darkness yields no secrets. I’m aware of my eyelids and little else in the room. I can’t feel the rest of my body. I wait patiently and wonder if this is what it’s like to die. I feel a burning somewhere and realize it’s in my chest, my lungs. I’ve been holding my breath, though I’m unsure of the reason. A staggering, sucking gasp sounds as my lungs struggle to take in the heavy, sweet air. I cough, feeling a moment of panic as I realize I can’t breathe in again and the last of my air is escaping. I suck air again, my lungs unused to breathing. Again that putrid-sweet smell permeates my body. I force myself to recover, breathing in regular, measured breaths. The smell makes me gag, nothing to vomit but clear liquid. My eyes feel both dry and sticky. It’s like the clinging smell of long-dead road kill that attaches itself to the bottom of your car on a hot summer day. It’s not the smell of a butcher shop. The air is not crisp, the smell is not from blood alone, and it is not that clean. It’s that juicy, sweaty, half-digested smell. This is the kind of smell that draws carrion and maggots to finish the job. I cannot stay here, I have to leave. As air returns to my brain, my head clears enough that I can push myself into a sitting position with my elbows against the damp, rocky floor. Invisible pins stab at my right arm as circulation returns to my fingers painfully. Cradling my arm, I strain to see where I am. There’s no light, it’s hopeless. I’ve no clue where I am, I feel as if I haven’t eaten in weeks, and I can’t even see my prison. Suddenly I hear a sobbing sound projected off of something to my right. Perhaps I am not alone. It takes me a full three seconds to realize that those were my own pitiful noises echoed back to me. I must be in a cave for the echoes to sound so sharp and real. I shift to a more comfortable position and sit on what feels like a stout, flat rock. As I shift I hear something metallic fall out of my pocket. I pick up a round, thin coin and deftly maneuver it between my digits as I think to myself. It flits back and forth and I can see it in my mind. An image forms in my mental eye of where my hand and the coin should be based on the physical sensations. I toy with the idea of a golden coin in my right hand’s fingers, though I doubt that it is one, before turning my thoughts towards the more important task at hand. The smell and feel of the air still registers in my senses. I almost hope not to discover what it is. I let my mind wander as I watch the coin flit gracefully across the imagined image of my fingers. I’ll let the image sharpen to keep from dwelling on the repugnant odor. My name is… I push through a barrier. There’s a birthday, fourteen candles set up just for me. The cake is the only thing in focus, but I strain to see the rest of the room instead. People surround me, it’s a happy time. I smile to myself in the cave. “Happy birthday dear Tri-am,†my name is Triam and it is echoed on the cake in sloppy writing with birthday wishes, “happy birthday to you!†I try to see the blurry faces; I try to recognize something as I blow out the candles and am returned to darkness. I’ve remembered nothing but my first name. I open my eyes to the darkness of my cave again. “Triam opens his eyes,†I speak hoarsely to myself, surprised at my own voice. I’m not sure if it came out right, but I don’t care. The contrast in hearing the words in the quiet allows me a new awareness of the sounds around me. I yawn to clear my ears and hear water dripping in the distance. I shift in my spot, but hesitate as I realize the danger. I’m not sure of my surroundings. A sudden drop from an unseen crevice in the floor could be fatal if I simply left this spot in search of a noise that could very well be an echo of an echo from kilometers away in the opposite direction. It’s impossible to tell from sound alone. I should not trust my ears in this place just as I would not trust my eyes in a house of glass and mirrors. I’m standing in line at the fair with a friend. This was just last summer, I was twenty years old. I remember a peck on the cheek and turning to I look into the eyes of the one I loved. This beautiful woman was the one he was banded to. Lariana’s eyes were like trying to see your reflection in a vibrant tropical sea, then getting lost in the attempt. Alive, bright, almost like folded electricity around the iris. I tossed a playful grin her way and we stepped into a dusty, poorly constructed haunted house. I regretfully return to the present. These fragmented memories are important, but useless to my current situation. I need to remember who I am, but how I got here and how to leave are more urgent. I focus my energy, on the task at hand and my mind goes blank. I need to know. I need to remember. I stare hard at the coin as it bounces to the floor in my frustration. I surprise myself with how clear it and my hand have become to my senses. My memories hide. Nearly tangible, like that word you’ll never quite remember without some help. But there is nobody else here, there is no help. I’m not sure how I know, but it’s true. I could die here alone and nobody would find me. I let the fact sink in. My hand fades back into darkness as I let the constructed image of it go. I’m never getting out of here. I’m too afraid to even move off of this fucking rock. I slam my fist down in frustration and despair and it lands on something hard. It is no rock, the shape is too perfect. I have not slammed my fist down in anger on the coin, but on something else. This object is cold and metallic like the coin was upon first picking it up, but heavier and shaped like a tiny box. I feel across its sides with my fingers. It is perfectly smooth except for straight hairline cut across the middle that extends the whole way around and a few scratches on the side that was on the rocks when I hit it. The box is about as tall as my thumb, half as wide as it is tall, and then half as deep as it is wide. The smooth metallic object is oddly heavy for its size. I puzzle over the thing, and realize that it must have fallen out of my pocket with the coin. I push the top open with my thumb almost instinctually and snap my eyes closed quickly as light fills the area. I’ve just opened a very nice lighter. I can see my eyelids lit up from the back, and even this filtered light is almost too much for my darkness-fed lenses. Slowly I work open my eyes to view my surroundings. The light hitting my eyes is physically painful, but I force my surroundings to become clear. This is a cave, much as I expected, and I seem to be in a larger open area with various tunnel entrances connecting to it. Smooth edges define this cave system and show the wear of ancient waterways that have left their mark. The flickering light casts many shadows, but also causes light to dance off of ancient crystals beautifully. Small rainbows play over the cave walls forming and fading as the small flame licks the putrid air experimentally. Immediately my horrified gaze fell on a gruesome sight. A body lay crumpled in a pool of its own blood and urine only five feet from where I now sit. Leaning over, I wretch more liquid from my empty stomach as dry, salty tears stream down my face. I collapse pitifully in my own clear puke and the lighter snaps shut casting me into darkness. I lay there for a long time too weak and horrified to move. Suddenly my mind recoils as if burned. I roll over, arch my back and clasp my head. I feel broken, my mind buckles and then something snaps. Memories come surging back painfully into my mind as if they’ve discovered that it’s safe to come out of hiding. I had been chased here by the man laying dead in this cave. He had been sent to find me, I can remember that now. Just as I start trying to piece things together, another wave of memories washes over me. My mind is yanked backwards through the tunnel system and into the blinding light of a dream.
M2tM on
"We can be richer than industry as long as we know that there are things that we don't really need." -Willy Mason
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Triam Braham stood in line at Central Grove’s grocery store. Central Grove was certainly no city, but neither was it as small as a simple farming community. It was large enough for a person to have difficulty knowing everyone else, and small enough that you would at least recognize the faces of most of the inhabitants. Triam had lived his whole life in this town and was happy living here. Central Grove had a rather relaxed and friendly feeling to it that was quite attractive for many of the townsfolk. From the old gas station/convenience store on one end of town down Main Street with its paint-peeling wooden storefronts to the post office on the other end of town life was simple and rewarding. It was a town of low fences and little consequence. Nature still had presence, sometimes seemingly fighting off human constructions. A small, quick-moving stream ran through the centre of town unknowingly interrupting roads with wooden bridges as it babbled innocently by. Grass and dirt had made their way up to the edge of a roundabout last week effectively stalling its use until some bedraggled parents dug it out again to their children’s delight. It wasn’t that Central Grove’s citizens neglected to maintain their storefronts or houses, it’s simply that there were more important things to do with their time than touch up paint when everyone else’s paint was peeling at the same rate. Things were actually quite tidy for the most part. Lawns properly trimmed, clutter removed from the roadsides, and only the occasional home could be called “messyâ€. On occasion a new house would begin construction at which point many neighbours were reminded of touchups which might improve their own homes and an entire block might end up repainted within a week. This was great for the local hardware store and for students trying to earn money, but the flurry of activity generally ended as quickly as it began and always occurred in measured bursts. It was a comfortable place to live one’s life. Triam had, until recently, lived with his father, Reviam, who was quite kind hearted, but firm when he needed to be. Reviam was the sort of person who spoke when it was necessary for those around him to listen. He was intelligent and humble, it is for these reasons that he had served for as long as Triam could remember with the Town Directorate. Though usually reserved, Reviam had traveled in his youth and he enjoyed spinning tales of adventures either real or imagined for Triam as he grew up. With a sparkle in his dusty, grey eyes he would tap his chin thoughtfully for a moment letting the suspense build. When Triam’s insisting bordered a plea Reviam would smile knowingly and then allow the story to unfold. His usually chiseled oak-like face would become quite animated and he would use his hands to guide the ideas with as much skill to his movements as a master potter perfecting his trade. Though Reviam had a strong heart, Triam could see that his father still dearly missed his departed mother Eriocha. Triam never had a chance to know Eriocha. His mother had left this world as she brought him into it. He felt pangs of sympathy for his father, and sometimes wondered what Eriocha had been like. He did not carry the deep sorrow his father held. Triam had never had the chance to meet her, but he felt a piece missing when he dwelled on it. Reviam had raised Triam as best as he could. Reviam never blamed his son for his Banded’s death; he believed that Eriocha had imparted much of her vitality onto Triam and loved him all the more for that. Triam had worked hard at the mill as an apprentice under the master woodworker and mill-owner Derian during the past few years to raise enough pressings to pay for his house. Every spring they would focus on production of various planks and beams and during the winters Triam helped Derian craft furniture for various clients who approached the woodworker from abroad. Triam had no need for a large dwelling. A humble, but tidy four-room living space just out of town served him and Lariana well. While he worked at the mill Lariana would craft various ornaments or construct the most astounding paintings for whichever art sale was coming up. Their combined efforts allowed them to live comfortably, though not garishly. Triam hefted his bag on to the revolving counter as the till woman, Tracy, finished with the previous customer smiling and waving. He picked up a solid metal lighter as he was lost in thought, he didn’t smoke, but the lighter held an appeal for him. Without thinking about it he put the lighter on the counter to pay for as well. Triam noticed he was next and allowed himself to brighten up and smile so as not to seem glum. “I saw you scowling; you can’t fool me with that smile.†She scolded in a playful tone. “I know, you’re not easy to fool,†Triam replies with a chuckle, “I was just worrying over my gift for Lariana’s birthday. She painted me the most amazing dragon for my birthday, and I really want to give her something special next week. Derian was kind enough to allow me to purchase some of our premium oak at half price. I’ve been working on an ornate easel for her.†Triam pulled out a few pressings and took his re-packaged groceries in hand, putting the lighter in his pocket. “Well, I don’t see what the problem is. It sounds like you have things well in hand. Just don’t carry a scowl unless you have reason,†Tracy laughed. Triam now realized that wasn’t the reason he was frowning earlier. He did have the project coming along smoothly and on time. He was certain she would love it over her current easel which had needed repairing on several occasions and certainly wasn’t very solid to begin with. With that realization he couldn’t quite place what was troubling him, but he thanked Tracy and headed to his car. As Triam loaded his groceries into the car, he saw a rabbit chewing on a mouse’s body in the middle of the parking area. The rabbit didn’t seem to notice him immediately as he set down his groceries and edged closer. Gravel crunched underfoot, giving him away. The rabbit raised its head and looked at Triam then picked up its prey and bounded off into some bushes. Today felt wrong, and an omen such as this was certainly not good. He had never been superstitious, but this event was troubling in itself. Trying to get the image out of his mind, Triam drove home. Lariana had left a note saying she had taken a walk and was out purchasing new paints. Triam smiled, Lariana would be in a great mood for some time because she loved buying new art supplies. Another reason Triam was smiling was that she always cooked a particularly good meal if she was in a particularly good mood. Triam decided a walk might be a good idea. If he didn’t get out in the fresh air that rabbit would haunt his dreams. He opened the squeaky screen door, looked around his open back yard and smiled. This was one of the main benefits to having a house just outside of town. The back yard opened up directly to a field and then the woods which he and his banded enjoyed hiking during the warmer seasons. An old well-used fire pit sat in the middle of the yard surrounded by stones, marshmallows, company, and stories were the usual patrons of its midnight light. Triam already felt better, and he stepped out into the sunlight carefully closing the door behind him. The leaves were starting to change from vibrant reds to brittle bloodstain brown. The air had the same crisp dryness as the leaves underfoot. The air was chilled but not cold. It was a perfect day for a walk; the playful breeze was refreshing as it stole Triam’s tension on each pass. The last few days had been uneventful, but not comfortably so. Even still, he could certainly forget whatever imagined trouble there was for the moment and simply enjoy his surroundings. Triam flipped on his music player and set it on random hoping it would sooth him. A delicate mix of instruments played to his stride. A leaf fluttered down as the guitar pulled a few well-placed scales to the sounds of a harp. The music was not purely instrumental, though the lyrics were meant to be heard as part of the sound. “The best music is that with soul to match the mood,†Triam thought to himself as he closed his eyes and walked the path he’d walked so many times before. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and solidified as a grin. Triam let his worries melt away and a light drumming picked up in his headphones. Triam walked in peace a long time only opening his eyes only when he needed to and otherwise letting all his senses relax to the waves of music and the feeling of the gentle wind. A twig snapping sounded to his left. The noise had been framed in the silence between songs and sounded unnaturally loud. Pulling his headphones down Triam stopped moving and looked in the direction of the snap. There wasn’t another sound. No more twigs breaking, no brush rustling which could not be accounted for by the wind. It was the sound of something sneaking, something trying to muffle its sounds. A bird burst noisily away from a bush next to him as a small fox bounded across the trail after it behind him. Triam laughed to himself nervously. He realized he was a bundle of nerves, but had no idea why. If Lariana were here with him, she’d be excited to even see a fox, never mind having it dash by mere feet away. He was a lucky man. It wasn’t because he saw the fox, but because of the life he led. He ought to relax and count his blessings, being wound so tight that a single twig snapping in a forest could set him off was silly. Triam clicked off his music player and picked up his pace for the rest of the walk home. He hoped Lariana had already started that delicious supper he hoped for. Picking up his pace even more after realizing how far he had walked from his house Triam wondered how long he had walked for. The sun was low, it was getting dark. He did not recall going out past the trail and into the bush, he rarely walked this far. Pushing himself a little faster, Triam broke into a nervous jog, his footsteps sounding hollow against the empty woods to the beating of his heart. There were no insect noises, no rustlings, nothing but his own footsteps chasing him back to his home. Triam stopped and looked around; there was something definitely wrong about this. The air didn’t feel right. There were no leaves on the trees anymore, many were blackened and twisted. There were leaves on the trees when he left his house, he must have let the rabbit really get to him. Triam closed his eyes, there weren’t actually blackened trees, there couldn’t be, he had just walked this path. He was imagining things. The sound of crickets chirping snapped Triam’s eyes open. No blackened trees, no unearthly silence. It would be good to get back home and get some food and rest. Nothing was following him and there were no strange blackened trees. Nothing was wrong except for an over-active imagination with too little rest. He had been working too many hours lately, his mind was over-worked. *** The trees sway in a gentle breeze like nodding children fighting sleep as the sun sets on the town. Shadows lengthen and cover the land in a comforting blanket of darkness as the pastel sky gently fades. Night has fallen as it has before, and will again. Old oak trees spin tales of the past in whispers as the wind picks up and passes through their leaves and branches. Several firs gossip with the sleeping animals paying no mind to their lack of response. Only the playful willow mourns softly, unheard, as a shadow not belonging to the forest passes by unnoticed by any other. ***.... IN PROGRESS, NOT DONE THIS CHAPTER ....
A first person novel tells readers about the character from the way the character describes things. An uneducated character might not waste time talking about a "juicy, sweaty, sweet carrion smell," just calling it instead "rank."
Also, why did you decide to bounce viewpoints? It's jarring going from "oh holy shit I'm stuck in a cave" to some fellow named Triam.
Some of the adjectives are a little weak and overblown. A lot of these descriptors could be tightened up and made far punchier.
Other than that, not a bad start. Seems like you've put together a pretty believable world, though I don't have time at the moment to give it an in-depth read.
Thank you, Rubacava!
The specific reason for the viewpoint-change between chapters 1 and 2 covers a couple purposes, first, it is a bit jarring, but that's sort of how the main character feels. Second, he's currently unconscious on a cave floor remembering all of this... The last little bit is a description from the timeframe of the past and is not part of the memory.
Yeah, not much has happened yet, but I would still like it to pull the reader in. That means that I'll need to get some specific areas that need work. I'll try to incorporate more interesting adjective use and to punch up the writing a bit with some pleasant surprises.
Triam himself is a man of details, he's an apprentice under a master wodworker and he knows his craft. Feeling out the wood involves all the senses and so he pulls that into the rest of his life (enjoying the music especially, noticing the smell and describing it in that manner, noticing the twig snapping where another might keep walking, noticing the rabbit eating the mouse where another might just see the rabbit.) Also, Triam reads and appreciates artwork... He's not someone who will go to college, but he is a very talented and intelligent man who happens to enjoy woodworking. Maybe I'll put a bit of that in to describe him some more, or maybe I'll just let it flow throughout further chapters.
So, your point of a less educated character not speaking that way and missing details is valid because I understand most other characters won't be as in-tune. That being said, I don't think it will detract from the story to have some of the juicier details missed in certain chapters. I'll do my best to hit either side of a problem that is missed so an attentive reader can fill in the details.
Things will really start to pick up in chapters 3 and 4 and will have a lot more action throughout with less concentration of introductory chapters and sections.
If you've ever smelled decaying meat for a length of time (not talking about taking a quick whif and then yanking your nose away), it really does pull on your thoughts. You can't think about much else, and it isn't simply rank
Once I hit a not-so-fresh dead deer carcus and pieces of it stuck to the underside of my car. I drove with that smell for an hour and a half and that's -definitly- how the smell is described.
Alright. So now that I've described my plan a little bit, I recognize that what I currently have does need work. Specific suggestions are definitly welcome (as are broad suggestions... really, just any kind of suggestion), and thanks a ton for reading it Raz!
I'm sorry, it's so galumphing, superfluous, passive, and cliched that I couldn't go on.
Honestly, if the first sentence isn't perfect, there is no reason to continue writing the story. If this the making of a novel, the editors/agents you send it to will take a look at that one line, assume the entire novel is written in that same overblown fashion and toss it.
Alright, I officially can't listen to what you've just said. I read your first sentence and stopped.
Honestly, if you can't even read a paragraph I don't know why you post in the writers section at all.
Come back with some constructive crits or go shoot yourself, one or the other, i don't mind which.
Honestly, I'm more than willing to hear out any complaints people have, but if you didn't even read it, I don't know why I should bother to hear YOU out.
The first line of a story is an art in and of itself. If needs to convey a sense of scene, urgency, conflict without too much exposition or without sounding convoluted.
I had a number of short stories published in asimov, thema, blood & gore, and I am telling you what the editors told me. Readers need to be hooked; being told that the room a person is in is dark (especially the way you did) isn't interesting, it's boring. Consider starting your work with action, something that hooks, then exposition.
The simple fact that you -have- been published has made me seriously consider changing a number of aspects about my opening and perhapse changing the timeframe of the start. I'll be going through this again and again to pull together the style so it has no more and no less than required. I tend to be long-winded and to use overly pretentious language and that's never fun to read.
I know that the storyline is rock-solid. I have faith in it (but not that blind faith that disallows change) and so I'm not going to just toss what I have or give up. That said, the language and the telling need work and there isn't enough written for people to get a solid sense of anything yet.
As a published writer, Swimming Bird, anything else you have to say (no matter how bluntly stated) will not be brushed off. If you can get past the first little bit (or just pretend that there has already been a good hook
Every week or every two weeks I'll post an update.
Try to avoid memories washing or flooding. It doesn't really work like that outside of fiction plus it sounds used.
Its dark in the beginning but he can tell it is clear vomit? I don't think I get the significance of the clear vomit. Has he been drinking a lot of water? It's mentioned again later so I'm left wondering what the significance is.
The above sentence is ungainly and overly complicated. I think there would be a more elegant way of saying that there is no difference with his eyes opened or closed than this.
First person present is tricky and is usually best for short pieces. It can start to sound like a play-by-play if you aren't careful.
I know it has become the in-thing to loathe adverbs but you need to remove the ones in this. They don't fit in well.
The beginning of the second chapter reads like a textbook.
There are some specifics for ya.
I actually think "There is no difference with my eyes open or shut" is a much better way of saing that.
"I can tell you right now, this story is dead in the water because of this most common and most awful of openings. This is the standard "she drove through the snow, tears flowing down her cheeks, thinking through the events of the past few days" opening that wrecks story after story. At least you have the consolation of knowing that everybody else makes this mistake too.
What you're doing with this kind of opening is: You are forcing us to face the character's raw emotions without giving us any information about the story or any reason to care about the character. It is the opposite of how it has to work. We should not face the emotions until we completely understand the entire situation so that we will feel those emotions ourselves -- and then the character does not have to "tremble badly" and waste our time sitting around while memories "storm" through his mind.
When you do start giving us actual information, because you've given us intense emotion to begin with, the info you give us feels weirdly disconnected -- he's there trembling, having just become a killer, and you're going to tell us about his career? You're going to tell us how tall he is? Without first telling us what the hell he just did that he's trembling about? No, you have strained the audience too far.
When you reach for emotions the story has not earned, we call it "sentimental" or "melodramatic."
Two opening strategies, then, would work:
1. The Life Interrupted: Start with a scene at home, funny, interesting, idyllic, and then interrupt it with the traffic incident. However, the first sentence could still be along the lines of: "Donald Blank did not wake up and say, Today I think I'll kill a man" or some such other line that signals us that life and death matters are at hand. You can do that in the first paragraph, and the first paragraph only, because it is "free." I'm not advising you to do it -- I think it's better just to let it unfold. The story will be interesting enough if you make the relationship interesting enough.
2. Action Jackson: Start with the traffic incident, and flash back to the morning scene with wife (he thinks of her because of how that bullet could have left her a widow with an unborn child; that if he died, he would never have known the child; someone else would have raised him; what kind of bastard would do that to his family over some traffic thing, etc. -- all within his point of view, all tied to the present moment). No need for a cute opening sentence in this opening. However, he will not be as real a character to us -- more like everyman than this particular man. Either strategy would work well, however.
And either way, you cannot tell us that the shooter was sitting in his car, police scanner in hand. Instead, you have him call, wait for the cops, and then be shocked when the shooter shows up. Then he realizes -- the guy has a police scanner. When I call the cops, I call him! It will work just as well to have the realization after the fact -- and does not violate point of view. Thus you can have your cake and eat it too -- the frisson of realizing the "cool idea" of the story (i.e., highway shooter who uses police scanner to find his victims before the cops do) and also the close identification with character that is possible when point of view is intensely maintained. "
It's basically lame
I'll work on it, I'm not a -horrible- writer, I know I can do better.